Motive as Spell
by driggs
Summary: AU. The Doctor as a record shop proprietor and Clara as someone so desperate to find a better flatshare she befriends the strange, aging punk she's just met. But that's all too normal. Far, far too normal.
1. Chapter 1

_I cast a shadow that swallows you whole._  
 _I swoop, I climb, I cling, I suck,_  
 _I swallow you whole._  
The Adverts, "The Great British Mistake"

* * *

 _He comes upon a woman at the stream. It's the same as always. She scrubs a bloody shirt, steam rising from her hands as she furiously works the fabric. Bloody jumper. Bloody trousers. The article of clothing doesn't matter. But every time it's blood she's scrubbing._

 _He wants to ask her. He needs to know whose clothing. He knows. But he also needs to know._

 _She looks up at him. Her eyes are pale. They're mist on a moor. Reflections of a full moon. The hairs on his neck stand on end. He's stood frozen, trapped in her gaze._

 _She raises an eyebrow and the edge of her mouth hitches in a smirk. Ask me, she mouths. When she lifts the shirt (the trousers? The jumper?) from the stream again and turns towards him, he sees she's now holding a bloodied wolf skin. She begins to rise and the blood rushing in his ears sounds like drums._

 _And he runs._

 _As he always has. And always will._

* * *

She had five days to be out of the flat. Well, she didn't have to be, but she wanted to be. Five days was all she had left in her. It seemed like a brilliant idea at first-a large, converted warehouse flatshare in East London. Lots of young artist types, all new or new _ish_ to London. Didn't take her long to discover it was nothing of the sort. The idealists had fled the high rents and left the poshers in their wake. It was miserable.

Clara hated the internet. How could she possibly find the right flatshare out of hundreds of thousands of potential places? How could she know she'd found the right one and wasn't living with an axe murderer? Or worse, a banker? She closed her laptop in frustration and stuffed it in her bag, gulped the rest of her tea, and left the cafe in a huff, stepping out onto the high street in a sour mood.

Figuring buying something cheap would put her in better spirits, she noticed a small record shop across from the cafe. Mostly by its brilliant blue door, a colour which stood out amongst the mostly neutral and inoffensive shop fronts. Nothing else about it was very noticeable at all. There were plenty of record shops in the area-brand new and minimal, not a trace of dust to be found on their pristine and overpriced recent pressings, still in their wrapping.

As soon as she stepped through the blue door, she was shocked by how much larger it was than it'd seemed from the outside. Stacks and stacks of records filled the aisles and shelves, dusty and musty, something comforting about the chaos.

She was in heaven. If only she could move in here.

Despite seeing no one in the shop, not even an employee, she began digging through the stacks. Kate Bush was the first gem and, of course, she snagged it. After what felt like hours she had ten perfect additions to her slighty-too-large-already collection. But there was still no one in sight.

"Um, hello?" she asked the empty store. "Can I pay for these?"

From behind a haphazardly hung curtain, a wild-haired older man stepped out. Frowning, he eyed her suspiciously.

"How long have you been here?" he asked gruffly, with a strong Glaswegian brogue.

"I'm not sure. It seems like time moves differently in here," she replied, though she felt a bit silly admitting it. "Could I buy these please?" she asked again, slightly exasperated.

He stepped over a short stack of records, his Doc Martens making a heavy thud on the creaking floorboards. "Depends."

"Depends?"

"Aye. Depends. On what you have there." He grabbed the records from her arms and took a look. "The Smiths?" he questioned immediately.

"I know Morrissey's a wanker, but I still like them. Unapologetically." She stood resolute and looked him directly in the eyes. She thought she saw a glimpse of something wild there at her challenge, but it might've been spillover from his eyebrows.

He flipped through the remainder, eyebrows raised in what appeared to be appreciation as he landed on a few of them. "All right. Four pound fifty."

She crossed her arms. "Do you really judge every purchase before it's made?"

He nodded. "And I charge on a sliding scale based on how much of a pudding brain the haul would suggest the buyer to be."

"So where am I on the scale?"

"I'd imagine you made out quite well, considering initial trepidation." He put the records in the bag and then added one more before handing it over to her.

"What's this?" She took a quick look at the worn album cover. _The Adverts_.

"Take a listen. If you hate it, you can give it back." He shrugged.

"Seems like a fair deal. What's the name of this place? Looked like it said 'Police Box' out front."

"It's TARDIS. Don't ask what the acronym stands for. Disco's in there. Obviously not my idea, I just took the place over." He paused, considered. "Don't go telling people about us, though. Last thing I need is for this place to be written up by some pudding brain hipster as an 'undiscovered gem.'"

Clara shook her head and laughed. "Fair dues. And you don't look like you've listened to a second of disco in your life."

He smirked. "The grey had to come from somewhere, didn't it?"

She nodded. "I'm Clara, as it goes."

"The Doctor."

"Right. You couldn't possibly have a normal name. Well, thanks for the record, Doctor."

He nodded and turned to put a record on the turntable behind the counter. The warped, tinny sounds of frenzied guitars filled the shop. Dingy record stores were obviously where old punks went to die. Or live forever like some sort of strange vinyl Nosferatu.

Clara walked towards the door and noticed taped to the door was a small handwritten note about a room available. Near the Hackney Wick Overground. Only a hundred per week? She pulled out her mobile to call whoever had posted the note and then immediately realised there was no number.

"Doctor, do you know who put this here? Has this been up long?"

"Of course. And I suppose it's been awhile. A few months now." He turned down the music a bit.

"Could you put me in touch with them? I'm tired of looking for a new place and this is perfect."

"When can you move in?"

"Tomorrow," she said, maybe a bit too quickly. "Whenever. Soon."

"You don't have any pets, do you?"

"None. And I don't own much, I'm a teacher in Shoreditch, very quiet and clean. Plus, I bake. I'm really an excellent tenant."

He nodded. "All right. Want to move in tomorrow then?"

The dull ache from the weight of her computer bag blossomed into a twinge of pain. She moved it to her other shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "So it's your flat?"

"That all right?" The Doctor seemed a bit uneasy now. He scratched the back of his neck and looked down at the counter, rubbing at the sticky ancient remnants of some sticker, torn off years ago.

Clara took a minute to consider. One more night in the flatshare from hell seemed worse than any other situation she could possibly imagine. Even a situation as rife with potential for horridness as moving in with this strange, aging punk record store proprietor she'd just met. "Yeah, go on then."

He pulled a worn Moleskine from his back trousers pocket and wrote a few words down furiously. Ripping out the piece of paper, he handed it over to her. "Come round six or so tomorrow, yeah? Won't be home til around then, but here's the address."

She grabbed the paper from him and folded it over, putting it in her computer bag. "All right, Doctor. See you tomorrow night."


	2. Chapter 2

"Thank you again for helping me with this, Danny." Clara said, putting a box into the boot of Danny's car.

"I still can't believe you're moving in with a weird old bloke you just met yesterday." He laughed and shook his head. "Is this place really so bad?"

As if on cue, one of her flatmates yelled incoherently from upstairs. Likely for no other reason than he'd had several pints at lunch and then not gone back to work, in favor of staying at the pub. If it was the one she was thinking it was, he'd likely incite the rest of the lot into hours upon hours of loud drinking in the common area of the flat.

"Suppose I shouldn't have asked?" He frowned, helping her put a few more boxes into the car.

"Why do you think I've never had anyone over?"

Danny smirked. "I just thought you weren't the dinner party sort."

"You can have people round outside of dinner parties," she argued. "And as it stands, I _love_ having dinner parties. I'm brilliant at hosting them. At Uni-"

"Yeah, yeah. Well, this Doctor then? Will he let you have dinner parties?" Danny closed the boot and walked around to the driver's side.

"I don't know. I don't even know if the flat is big enough to host parties." As she sat down in the passenger's seat, she was beginning to think her impulsive decision to move out and into the first thing that came up might not have been the best idea. But a few more shouts from the flat reaffirmed her convictions in her impulsive decisions. "Hackney Wick is where we're going. Step on it!"

There was a spot of traffic, but the drive from Shoreditch to Hackney Wick wasn't a long one. Danny, to his credit, was attempting small talk, albeit awkwardly so. " _How many pairs of socks do you own_?" while endearing, wasn't exactly inspiring banter, but Clara went along with it in an effort to distract herself from how nervous she was about not only moving further East (and out of the comfort of Zone 1 despite the absurd costs that she'd clung onto like any proper transplant), but also in with some completely unknown person she'd only just met.

Pulling up to a line of terraced houses, he slowed down as they both looked for the number.

"Number 12, right there," Clara spotted, pointing so that she was blocking Danny's view of the road in front of him.

He pushed her arm down. "All right, don't blind the driver."

Clara jumped out of the car and walked up to the door to number 12, knocking a few times. She heard some shuffling from within and then the clicking of the locking mechanism.

"Clara. Where's all your stuff?" the Doctor asked, looking at her.

"In the car," she replied, moving aside so the Doctor could see Danny, leaning against the car and giving him a nod.

"You said you didn't have any pets," the Doctor said curtly. He fished a silver key on a chain long enough to be a necklace from his pocket and handed it to her.

For some unknown reason, Clara responded with: "Danny's just a friend."

"They often are," he replied, stepping aside. "Do you want to see your room?"

Clara looked back at Danny, who encouraged her to go ahead and went around to the back of the car to begin pulling the boxes out. She followed the Doctor down the hallway.

"Your room is down here. It's a double. Bed and everything," he pointed to a door, looking very pleased with himself considering he hadn't even opened it to reveal whatever was on the other side.

Instead, he let her open the door and watched from outside the threshold. She turned the light on and took a look around. It was large. Larger than her last room. A double bed in a simple frame. A desk with a chair. An armchair in the corner. A wardrobe. Nothing on the walls save a mirror next to the wardrobe.

"Satisfactory?" he asked, looking concerned.

"Very," she replied, looking back at him and smiling. Without thinking about it, she went to give him a hug, but he immediately recoiled. "I'm so sorry," she immediately apologized. "I should've asked-"

"I'm not a hugging person," he replied gruffly, looking slightly ruffled, like some sort of strange, stern bird of prey. He left her and walked down the hallway.

"Am I still following you?" she called after him.

"If you'd like," came his reply from an unseen room.

She walked in the same direction and found him in the open kitchen/living room area. This area looked significantly more lived in-records and books lining the wall shelves, framed photos and art on the walls. The sofa was worn brown leather and there was an Eames lounge chair off to the side. No TV to be found, but there was a very nice audio setup.

It seemed like a home.

"I better help out Danny with the boxes, I don't want to keep him here all night," she said finally.

"So he will be leaving then?" the Doctor asked.

"I told you, he's a friend."

"I'd hope so." The Doctor sat down on his lounge chair.

"Tour over then?" Clara asked.

"All that's missing is the loo and the garden. Don't go to the loo in the garden and I think you'll be set," he said, putting his hands behind his head and yawning.

"But I can barbeque in the loo?"

The Doctor smiled at that. "Don't be daft. The loo's much too small for that sort of thing."

Clara turned and went back outside to help Danny bring in her things. It only took about ten minutes for Danny and Clara to move all of the boxes inside. A surprisingly efficient effort, she had to say, for the two of them.

"It was nice of your new mate to help us out," Danny said, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"Maybe it was a hard day at work?" she tried to defend.

"Or maybe he doesn't want to break a hip," he smirked. He took a look at his mobile. "Get some food in your new neighborhood before we call it a night?"

Clara, who was in the process of opening each box, looked up at him. "Raincheck? I have so much to do and I'm absolutely knackered."

There was a flash of disappointment, but Danny, a truly good sport, shrugged it off instantly. "Yeah, all right then. You're paying next time, though."

"It's a date!" Clara replied, then covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes went wide. "I mean, yeah...yes I'd be happy to-buy you dinner. As a thanks. For all the help tonight?"

"The sock question wasn't so bad now then, was it?"

Clara smiled and threw a pillow at him. "Revel in this brief reprise from being the least eloquent conversationalist on the planet."

Danny stood up and stretched. "I better do one then. See you tomorrow, yeah?"

Clara gave him a quick hug as a thanks and walked him out.

"We can schedule the date some other time," he teased, before going down the steps towards his car.

Momentarily flustered as she shut the door, Clara then immediately regretted not getting at least some takeaway upon realising she had absolutely no food in this flat.

"Doctor?" she asked the empty space as she walked towards the kitchen. "It's so odd not knowing your actual name," she mumbled, not intending to say it directly to him.

When she rounded the corner she found him sitting in the lounge chair, typing something on a laptop. It was a bit surprising, seeing him in reading specs and using a piece of technology that seemed completely out of character considering his demeanor and living space. It was almost otherworldly.

"Doctor, I just realised I don't have anything to eat. Mind if I borrow something until I can get to the shop tomorrow?"

He looked up from what he'd been working on. "Your boyfriend left then?"

"He's not my-what does it matter to you if he is my boyfriend?"

"Doesn't matter at all," he replied nonchalantly. "Seems to get a rise out of you, though. Which is interesting. Feel free to help yourself, but there's not much."

Clara took a look in the fridge. He hadn't been lying. There was some suspect looking butter, soya milk, a few sausages, a jar of mustard, and some marmalade. The cupboards didn't fair much better.

"What do you actually eat?" she asked, frustrated by the haphazard offerings.

The Doctor appeared at the kitchen island, leaning against the countertop. "I find quite a lot of food to be boring. No patience for it."

"But, you have to eat?"

"Have to, yes. Want to: rarely."

He pushed his way past her and opened a higher cabinet just out of her reach to pull out a box of pasta and an unopened jar of bolognese sauce. "Tada," he supplied half-heartedly. "Suppose I should do the honors?"

"This is like being back in uni," she sighed, resigned to what would likely be a bland meal. What kind of heathen didn't enjoy food? Especially living in Hackney Wick, which had been lauded by the so-called foodies of Shoreditch as being one of the more desireable areas for a decent meal out.

"You did say _you_ were the cooking sort," he replied, though he was focused on prepping the pot for the pasta and heating up the saucepan. "It was never part of the deal that I'd be the one to do the cooking."

"That's fair." She went around to the other side of the counter and sat on one of the barstools.

"Bit of wine?" he asked, looking back at her. "'Fraid it's all red and Italian."

She perked up at the offer, though immediately thought better of it considering that anyone without a taste for food likely had even worse taste in wine.

"Over by the turntables," he nodded, his intense gaze set on the saucepan. "Pick whichever calls to you."

Next to his audio equipment seemed an odd place to store wine, but she found a rack with an impressive selection of various Italian wines next to the turntable just as he'd said. She noticed now that one of the shelves on this side of the room held an array of spirits (an exaggeration of scotches, though she figured that was a badge of some sort) along with what appeared to be crystal tumblers. Clara took a look at the labels and, knowing nothing of wine and particularly nothing about Italian wine, chose the label that had the most appealing design. When she looked up, the Doctor was nowhere to be found.

She cautiously walked towards the stovetop and was caught off guard when he opened the garden door, holding some leaves.

"Is that basil?" she asked, surprised.

"I grow some herbs in the garden."

"Please don't tell me you're a pothead," she joked.

He smirked. "I'm about to put fresh basil into the...admittedly not fresh sauce. Hopefully this is the last of the vestigial university PTSD."

"You're assuming quite a lot about my uni experiences, Doctor."

He fished a wine opener out from a drawer and handed her two nice glasses from another high cabinet shelf. "Wasn't saying it was your PTSD."

She poured a bit of wine into both glasses and nudged one towards him. Taking a sip, she was pleasantly surprised. "I don't know much about wine. This is pretty good, though."

"I don't know anything about it. The entire collection you see there-gifts. Quite a lot of people think I should know much more about wine. Something about being refined." He took a sip. "I quite like the wild edges."

She held out her glass in a toast. "To the wild edges?"

He nodded with a small smile and clinked his glass against hers. "Have you ever opened a bottle of wine with a shoe?"

She laughed. "That's not possible."

"Of course it is." He dipped the wooden stirring spoon into the sauce and considered. "Málaga, Spain. I'd been carrying a bottle of French wine with me through several countries while on holiday with some mates. We were in this poorly furnished flat, devoid of anything but water after the bars had all closed. Except for this wine I'd packed and repacked in every city we stopped in."

He grabbed an unknown spice, poured a bit into his palm, and slowly threw it into the sauce, stirring rhythmically. "The flat, of course, didn't have a working wine opener. So with a little bit of basic physics knowledge, quite a dash of drunken desperation, and within the glow of the lights of the unfinished cathedral, I took off my shoe, placed the bottle inside, and banged it against the brick wall of the patio until the cork popped out enough to pull out."

He tasted the sauce once more, then offered her a bit. Clara grabbed the spoon, blew on it to cool slightly, then took a hesitant taste. It was good. Surprisingly good.

"If you hadn't just made Tesco Express bolognese into this, I would've said that story was a load of bollocks."

"Not too spicy, then?" he asked.

"It's perfect."

He took care of the noodles next, then set out two bowls for them. She poured a bit more wine into both of their glasses. It was odd to her how quickly she'd become comfortable here. How quickly the nervousness and anxiety had subsided. This wasn't so bad after all. Far better than the alternative.

"Unfortunately I don't have any parmesan. Or bread to dip in olive oil. Or...anything else, really." He handed her a bowl.

"This is fantastic, Doctor. Thanks for this."

Clara took a bite. She took a sip of wine. She smiled.

"Don't get used to it. Next meal is up to you," he replied, taking a drink and holding up the glass in a sarcastic toast.


	3. Chapter 3

_It's freezing._

 _She dips her toes into the water, watching the ripples disturb the surface._

 _There's no noise. She feels trapped by the silence. Looking up, she sees the silhouette of a large bird of prey. Its sharp gaze bores into her._

' _I know you,' she whispers._

 _ **Clara**_

She wakes with a start at her name.

"Clara?"

Clara grabs her phone from the bedside table. She realises the charging cable hadn't connected. Which means her alarm must not have gone off.

"Normally I wouldn't try to wake you but-"

"Doctor, what time is it?"

"Half eight. Are you ill? If you are, don't come near me."

She smacks herself in the forehead. Half eight. She's so late. Too late to be offended by her ornery flatmate.

"Two pages, due by Friday," Clara announced, much to the chagrin of the class. Courtney, as expected, groaned the loudest. "You think this is hard now? Wait a few years. You'll have ten pages due the next day for much shorter books."

The kids all began to pack their papers and notebooks, heading out for the day.

Clara took to erasing the whiteboard as the kids all shuffled out, ignoring the din of chatter and complaints.

"Ms Oswald," said a familiar voice.

Clara looked up and smiled at Danny leaning against the doorframe. "Mr Pink," she greeted. "How do you do it? How do you make these kids like you so much?"

"Honestly?" he asked.

"Yeah, honestly."

He looked away quickly. "Every other day I assign the odd problems in the Maths book. Which have the answers in the back."

"Cheater!" Clara gasped, throwing the eraser at him. "How do they learn?"

"Kids don't learn from homework. The ones that cheat? They don't get it. I spend more time with them. Make sure they learn it how they need to be taught." Danny shrugged.

"But there's no right answer to Literature. I grade based on the merit of ideas."

"Sounds like you're a good teacher, then," Danny offered, sitting at the edge of her desk. "You make them think about the things that matter."

"Try telling that to the Head Master," she sighed. Clara began to pack up her belongings, not overly excited about the prospect of the mound of essays she had to grade that evening.

It wasn't lost on Danny that she'd shoved a stack of papers into her bag. "Suppose you're not free for drinks, then?" he asked, nodding at her bag.

Clara groaned. "I know they hate writing this rubbish. I hate grading it."

"Is that a no or a yes?"

Clara shook her head. "Not tonight, I'm afraid. Friday night? Dinner even?"

"You're not veg, are you?" Danny asked.

"Nope. Unless we have to hunt our dinner, in which case I'm absolutely a vegetarian."

"I'm very old fashioned. I don't like to make the women I date hunt until well into the relationship," Danny teased. She sensed a bit of hesitance in him being so forward about the two of them. It was endearing.

"Why do you ask?" Clara put on her overcoat and motioned for them to head out.

"Figured I'd take you some place with a view. Just happens to be a meaty place, which is why I wanted to ask." He followed her out of the room and into the corridor. "You're sure I can't convince you into something tonight?"

"Honestly, besides grading, I did actually promise the Doctor I'd make dinner tonight."

Danny stopped and feigned insult. "You're turning me down for your weird old flat dad?"

"He's not as awful as you think he is," she argued. "He'll go days without speaking to me-" Danny opened his mouth to make a comment on the matter and Clara tutted. "But I think he's just a solitary person."

"Bit of a nutter more like," Danny mumbled, frowning. He followed her outside, buttoning up his coat and readjusting his shoulder bag. "See you tomorrow then?"

Clara mustered up a smile, feeling a bit guilty for turning Danny down in favor of dinner with her flatmate. "Yeah. Night, Danny."

Putting in her earbuds, Clara turned on some music for the journey home. She'd promised something nice for dinner a few weeks ago. The Doctor had been keeping late nights, but when he came in late, it was never accompanied by the telltale clumsiness of the pissed pub patron. Besides the opening and closing of doors, had she not been such a light sleeper, she perhaps wouldn't have even known he was out to begin with.

It was odd having such an absent flatmate. Even when she knew he was home, he often spent his time hidden away in his room. She'd begun to spend time in the living room, grading papers at his desk while listening to his records. The Doctor had never mentioned being upset by her use of the common space and figuring he wasn't one to be passive aggressive, she decided to continue making herself comfortable.

Dinner. She'd decided on some Cornish hens, truffle whipped potatoes, sauteed spinach, and perhaps a dessert of some sort. While she'd offered dinner in return for one he'd cooked a few weeks ago now, she was looking forward to some stress relief through cooking. After getting off the bus, she popped into a grocery store to pick up the requisite dinner ingredients, oddly excited to impress the Doctor with her menu.

Entering the flat, she was happy to find the lights on. He hadn't forgotten. She'd have been very cross if that'd been the case. She still would have made the dinner, of course. But she might've retaliated by opening a bottle of wine and telling him off when he did decide to show up. Luckily that wasn't the scenario. She took off her earbuds, kicked off her shoes, hung her coat on the rack, and walked into the common area.

"Evening, Doctor," she said cheerfully, putting the bags on the counter.

No response. She looked over and saw him asleep on his chair. He looked pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Clara took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then walked it over to him.

"Doctor, are you ill?" Clara asked, setting the water down on the table beside him.

He opened his eyes halfway, his pupils adjusting to the light too slowly.

"Do you mind if I take your temperature?" she asked, concerned.

"Not sick," he replied bluntly, his voice cracked.

Clara offered him the water, which he reached for, but immediately grimaced and held his side.

"You're hurt?"

He nodded, closing his eyes again.

"Have you been to the A&E? You should go to hospital," Clara said, starting to become more concerned by his unresponsiveness. "Doctor, tell me what's wrong."

He opened his eyes again and looked directly at her. Slowly, he hitched up his t-shirt, revealing what looked to be a small arrow shaft lodged in his side. Unable to stop herself, she reached out to touch it, not believing it was real.

At the briefest touch, she recoiled. It made her skin crawl.

"The shaft's iron," he wheezed. "Don't...you know you can't touch it."

Clara was confused. How could he have possibly known about her iron allergy? "We need to get this out of you. I'm going to call an ambulance."

She stood up and he grabbed her arm and held her tightly. "They can't help me there. They won't help me-"

"You're not thinking straight, Doctor."

"Call P.E.," he said finally.

"Danny?" she asked, surprised. "Why Danny?"

"You said he's a soldier. Must-must have experience with this sort of thing."

Clara shook her head and nearly laughed by how absurd the situation was. "This isn't medieval England, Doctor. Danny isn't Robin Hood."

"A bullet is infinitely worse than an arrow," he replied. As if he knew what a bullet felt like as well. She realised she knew so little about him.

"Please, Clara," The Doctor said, his voice cracking. "I don't have much time."

She rushed back to the kitchen, where she'd left her mobile on the counter. It was tempting to call 999 instead, but the Doctor had seemed very frightened of that possibility. Was he in a gang? Could you be in a gang as a near-pensioner? Maybe this was more of a _Harry Brown_ scenario?

"Change your mind?" came Danny's voice. Clara hadn't even realised she'd called him.

"Danny, I have to ask you a huge favour."

"He needs to go to hospital, Clara," Danny said, looking at the wound in The Doctor's side worriedly. "I can pull this out, but if there's any internal damage-"

"P.E.," mumbled The Doctor. "There's no internal damage. Just pull it out."

Danny frowned. He looked at Clara and shrugged. "Do you have rubber gloves?"

"What do you need-" Clara started, then realised he was going to actually pull it out. "Yeah, one sec."

Clara grabbed the washing up gloves from the sink (which she had just purchased the day before and was slightly annoyed she'd have to immediately replace) and handed them over to Danny.

"Are you squeamish?" he asked.

"Not particularly," she replied.

"Still, you might want to look away." Danny said, turning towards The Doctor and bracing himself, making sure his grip on the arrow shaft was strong. "All right, Doctor? You with me?"

The Doctor made a pained noise, weak and incoherent.

"I'm going to count to three. On three I'm going to pull and I'm not going to stop until the arrow is dislodged. Are you ready?"

The Doctor groaned again.

"One. Two. Three."

There are moments when time seems to pass both quicker and slower than normal. Clara watched, not willing to look away, as Danny pulled in one deft motion, dislodging the arrow. The Doctor's eyes flew open, his not insignificant eyebrows unlocked from their usual furrowed position.

To give the illusion of time slowing down on film, the frame rate is increased and the camera captures the image quicker than normal. Back when cameras were still operated by hand crank, this would mean that the camera operator would have to turn the crank at a higher rate. Clara wasn't entirely sure why this small bit of trivia popped into her head. It maybe had to do with the fact that her brain hadn't caught up to processing what her eyes were capturing. Or maybe it was a self-defence mechanism in times when reality didn't quite fit in the box of comprehensible things. Whatever the reason, where The Doctor had sat in pain mere nanoseconds earlier there was now, impossibly, a huge bird of prey.

"I know you," Clara whispered, the edges of her vision fading.

"Clara. Clara!" The sound faded, muffled. "Cla-"


	4. Chapter 4

Sudden annoyance.

That was how Clara felt each morning when the alarm on her mobile went off. She'd grown to hate the little melody that automatically played when an alarm went off, but hadn't cared enough to actually change it.

It was only ever the briefest bit of annoyance.

Clara exhaled. The events from the previous night rushing back to her. Where was The Doctor? Was he all right? She sprung from her bed and rushed from her room to the hallway.

"Doctor?" She asked at his door.

No answer.

Normally, she believed in the sanctity of personal space and the importance of privacy. But considering The Doctor had looked near death the night before and had an arrow lodged in his side until forcefully yanked from him by her friend, she figured he had forfeited his rights to both.

So she opened the door.

The Doctor wasn't there.

"That's not great," she said aloud to herself.

She rushed back to her room to grab her mobile, dialing The Doctor's number. And then immediately heard its ring coming from the living room. Which was also empty.

"Oh Doctor, you idiot."

At a loss for what to do, she decided to call Danny.

"Clara? You all right? It's so early."

"Danny, hey. The Doctor isn't...with you-is he?" Clara asked.

Momentary silence, then a chuckle. "Why would your weird old flat dad be with me this early in the morning? Why would he be with me at all?"

Clara shook her head in exasperation. "Oh I don't know, maybe because you saved his life last night?"

More silence. "Clara, what are you talking about?"

"Last night. You came over-"

"No, after you said you weren't free, I went out to the pub with Adrian."

"Well it must've been after that," Clara said.

"I was in bits after that. Adrian's a proper ledge once you get him talking about something besides books."

Clara exhaled in frustration.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to come over?" Danny asked.

"I'm not sure. I need to find The Doctor. I'll call you back in a bit or see you at school, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just...call me if you need me, ok?"

"Thanks, Danny."

Clara hung up and rubbed her face. Where could The Doctor be? That wounded, he couldn't have gone far without assistance. She'd just assumed he didn't have any mates because he never spoke about any but he probably did. You couldn't be a complete hermit living in London, could you?

Stuck in the middle of trying to decide what to do, the door to the garden opened.

"You're up early," The Doctor said.

Clara walked over towards him and gave him a shove. "What is wrong with you?"

"Get up on the wrong side of the bed, then?" he asked.

"You're injured!"

The Doctor furrowed his brow. "News to me."

"No no no no no. No. Pull up your jumper." She pointed towards his side and made an upwards motion with her fingers.

"Clara, I'm very flattered, but-"

Tired of listening to him stall, Clara lifted the side of his jumper, revealing...nothing. Just very pale, white skin. She took several steps back and covered her face with her hands. "Sorry," she mumbled finally. Looking up at him finally, she shook her head. "I'm so sorry."

Then she turned, walked to her room, and shut the door softly behind her.

"Promised I'd bring you somewhere with a view, didn't I?"

"Danny, this is...this is amazing!" Clara looked out the window. London twinkled below, the sky clear enough that the view from the 40th floor was nothing short of magical.

"About time we had a proper date, I think." Danny smiled and leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

Clara frowned.

"None of that, now," Danny said. "What's wrong?"

Taking a sip of water, savouring the coolness of it, she shook her head and smiled. "I'm sorry. It's been a long week." Clara covered his left hand with both of hers. "This is brilliant. You're brilliant. I'm very happy to be here."

She couldn't tell him her thoughts kept going back to The Doctor. About the night before. The pain etched in his face. The fear that he could be gone from her life so soon. Danny already thought her a bit weird for living with a random old man she'd met in a record store, but she had no interest in knowing how he felt about how close her friendship with The Doctor already was. A few months ago her life had seemed so ready for someone like Danny to be in her life and now...now she wasn't sure.

But that probably had nothing to do with The Doctor.

Probably.

"Doctor, we need to talk."

It had been a week since the incident that appeared to have not actually happened. But Clara couldn't stop thinking about it. It was waking her up at night, keeping her from focusing on her students, making her mind wander when she was with Danny. She hated the control this memory had over her and needed to address it.

"It's all right, I forgive you," The Doctor shrugged, not looking up from his book. He was sat in his lounge chair, a cup of coffee steaming next to him on the side table. He was listening to some reggae-sounding record, though the sound was turned down to not be disruptive.

"Excuse me?" Clara asked.

"The incident. Last week?"

She crossed her arms. "Yes, that's exactly what I want to talk to you about."

He looked up, then took a sip from his mug.

"It's been bothering me all week," Clara said finally. "How is it possible I could have dreamed something so vivid?"

"Do you want to lay down on the sofa? I do a pretty good Freud impression, though my psychoanalysis is tragically rusty."

"Doctor, please."

He mimed zipping his lips and watched with interest as she took a seat on the sofa next to him.

"There was an arrow in your side. Right there, where you're sitting right now. I thought you were going to die, Doctor."

"This is very interesting," The Doctor said, resting his head on his fist.

"Please, don't do the Freud impression," Clara begged.

"I wasn't, honest." He raised his arms in a mock surrender and leaned back.

"I can still feel my skin crawl when I think about touching the arrow-"

"Are your parents the same? As you?" The Doctor asked suddenly.

She furrowed her brow. "Same as me?"

"Do they have your abilities?" The Doctor stood up. "I've been curious about you for awhile. You seemed to not know, so I couldn't be sure."

"You're not making any sense, Doctor." Clara felt uncomfortable with the harshness of his gaze. He seemed to be looking right through her.

"I can't trick you. Your boyfriend, no problem. But you're not the same as the rest of these pudding brains, are you? Never have been?" He turned and opened a drawer, motioning for her to come over. Inside was the arrow, the shaft wrapped in thick cloth. "You can see this, right?"

Clara nodded. "Is that...is that the arrow from…?"

The Doctor smirked. "Incredible. But you haven't a clue, have you?"

"Please, stop speaking to me in riddles."

"You shouldn't be able to see this. Take a look at the lounge chair." He stood to the side to give her room to see. "No, no. Not straight on. You can never see it straight on, no matter what you are."

He positioned Clara so that she was standing perpendicular to the chair.

"There, with your peripheral vision. Do you see it?"

Clara could make out the shape of the lounge chair. But there was something else, some extra layer over it, distorting it. She reached her fingers towards the chair and the layer rose. The Doctor watched her intently, barely breathing.

The layer vanished and The Doctor encouraged her to look at the chair again. And she saw a dark stain in the worn leather. Right where he would have bled onto the chair the week before.

"How...how did you do that?"

The Doctor seemed puzzled once again. "You did it. Unless you mean what I'd placed on it before?"

"What are you?" she asked, taking a deep breath and stepping back slightly from him.

"I could very well ask you the same question. I mean, it's only fair."

"You saw. After Danny pulled the arrow out of my side, you saw me?"

Clara hadn't realised it, but she had backed up so far from The Doctor, she was nearly against the wall. "I don't remember-"

"Oh, yes you do. Remember it sideways," he encouraged, softly.

"That doesn't help. Just tell me," she pleaded, looking at him. She reached out tentatively, turning her head so she was no longer looking at him straight on. Layers. So many layers to him. So many more than the chair. They gleamed with a golden glow. Each layer a face. The faces of eleven other men-no, a dark aberration with one more face. Twelve below. And more. Feathers. Fur. Scales. She turned so she could look him in his eyes and the layers merged back into him.

"There's no word for it in this language. But you can see me now? You can really see me?" he prodded, smiling. She'd never seen him this worked up, this excited.

Overcome, she launched herself on him with a hug. "I don't understand any of this," she mumbled into his chest. She felt him shift in her arms, his arms not folding in on her in reciprocation, the energy of tension. He was holding himself together for her and it was a terrible strain. Clara broke the hug and stepped back.

"Always the hugging with you. I can't-I'm not a hugging person." He looked ruffled. "Well, hugs from you make it very hard for me, you know. Can't maintain this form without tremendous energy to counteract yours."

He ran a hand through his hair and pulled out a black feather, then handed it to her.

"Do you want to take a trip with me up North? I think there are some folks you need to meet."


	5. Chapter 5

Clara popped the lid off of her overly large Costa cappuccino, blowing on it in hopes that it would cool down to a temperature that was slightly cooler than molten lava. Why did all of these chains make scalding coffee? The Doctor, looking surly as ever, though slightly ridiculous in his faded band t-shirt and hoodie underneath his Crombie coat, was eyeing his steaming cup of black coffee suspiciously.

"Platform 9, just announced on the board," he said while pointing at the departure boards, grabbing his bag from the ground.

Clara fumbled with the lid, spilling a bit as she finally managed to get it back on. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and followed The Doctor, who'd decided to make his way to the train without waiting to see if she was in fact following behind him.

Could always turn back now, she thought to herself.

She managed to catch up to him whilst waiting in the queue to board their carriage. Which was fortunate as he did actually offer to hold her coffee while she lugged her bag onto the train, quickly stowing it on the luggage rack.

"Oh, I'm facing the wrong way," she said, realising her seat for the journey was backwards.

The Doctor snatched her ticket from her hand, replacing it with his own. She smiled at him and took his seat happily. His face, of course, was reactionless.

"So. Bring any games?" Clara asked.

The Doctor looked confused. "Games?"

"Yeah. To pass the time? Four hours to Glasgow. Don't tell me you were planning on doing something boring like reading."

He pulled a book from his inner coat pocket.

"Oh," was all Clara could muster. She hadn't thought to bring anything along, but there was an outlet at the seat so if she wanted she could just play games on her mobile the entire ride up to Glasgow.

He pulled out a pack of playing cards and started to shuffle them. "Gin?"

"Do you usually travel with a pack of cards in your coat pocket?" She asked, taking cards as he handed them to her.

He shook his head. "Not usually. But you seemed the sort that needed entertaining. Glad I was prepared."

She wasn't entirely sure if she should be offended by the accusation that she needed preoccupation, but considering he had in fact thought about making her trip a little more bearable, she decided to hold the offense for the moment. He'd very likely do something else to offend her soon.

Hours later (Clara had ultimately let The Doctor escape back to his book as she escaped to the bar carriage and grabbed a snack), they'd arrived at Glasgow Central. Clara followed The Doctor towards the front of the station, where an older woman with ginger hair waved happily at the two of them.

"Oi Doctor!" the woman yelled, running towards them and giving The Doctor a strong hug. "You've gotten so old!"

The Doctor turned to Clara and shrugged. "Clara, meet Donna."

"You're the special flatmate then?" Donna said, giving her a look over. Then, in a judging tone: "Doctor."

"Donna," The Doctor sighed. "Family business. Nothing untowards."

"All right, all right furball." Donna pointed over her shoulder. "Car park's just around the corner. Come on, then!"

Nearly an hour later, the car pulled up to a small cottage at the end of an unpaved road. "Home sweet home," Donna announced.

Clara had thought they'd be staying within Glasgow, so the fact that they were now far into the wilderness was a surprise to her. She supposed it would be nice to have some time away from a city, but she was slightly dismayed to find that her mobile had no service. She should've texted Danny before they'd left Glasgow to let him know she'd made it safely. Then felt a twinge of guilt at the fact that she'd lied to him and said she was heading back home to Blackpool for the long weekend.

"Shaun!" Donna yelled, opening the boot so The Doctor and Clara could grab their luggage. A man came out of the cottage and shook Clara and The Doctor's hands quickly before helping Donna out with the additional bags, which looked to be full of groceries.

As they entered the cottage, Clara noticed that it was small, but comfortably decorated. There was a pleasant feeling of warmth to it. Inviting and friendly, if a building could feel that way.

"Simple spell," Donna explained to Clara. "Makes a place feel homely when someone's nervous. Figured you might need it, love."

"Sorry, a spell?" Clara asked.

Donna put the bags down on the counter, putting the contents away in the cupboards. "Doctor, did you not tell her anything?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Not my business to tell other people those sorts of things."

Stepping back into the living room, Donna encouraged Clara to take a seat. "I don't like keeping secrets from people, unlike some I may know. So. I do spells."

Clara shook her head. "Like...a witch?"

Donna made a sharp noise of disagreement. "Witch has so many awful connotations."

"Not all of them undeserved," Shaun joked, reappearing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oi, that's enough from the peanut gallery."

Shaun stopped to give Donna a slight squeeze on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen to finish putting away the groceries.

"So, Doctor," Clara said, looking over at him. "Am I your only human friend?"

"I'm human," Shaun said.

"Oh, Clara." The Doctor gave her a worrying look. Clara wasn't certain she liked it.

Sensing the tension, Donna stood up suddenly. "OK, you two. Let me show you your rooms and you can get settled. Figured since you were back in town I'd invite a few folks round for dinner, Doctor."

"Please don't tell me you're throwing a party. You know I'm on the record against parties," The Doctor groaned, following Donna up the staircase.

"Not a party, Doctor. Just a few friends."

Clara's room ("First door on the right") was small but functional. A single bed. A few framed pictures on the wall. A small set of drawers. Not a room someone would want to spend an entire day in, but nice enough for sleeping.

"Make yourself at home, feel free to come downstairs whenever you're ready," Donna said from the threshold. "Anything you need, give us a shout."

Clara heard The Doctor settle into the room next to hers, along with Donna's footsteps heading down the stairs. She decided she'd had enough of him withholding information from her and needed to confront him about it. She went into the hallway and sharply knocked on his door before entering, not waiting for him to invite her in.

"Clara-"

"All right, Doctor. I think I've been a very good sport about all of this but enough is enough. We're going to sit here and you're going to tell me absolutely everything."

He opened his mouth to argue, then thinking better of it, patted the bed for her to sit down next to him. "What do you want to know?"

"First of all: _what are you_?" she asked, looking at him earnestly.

He sighed. "I thought you'd be able to figure it out without me having to give it a name. To simplify an incredibly complex concept: I'm a shapeshifter."

A few weeks ago, before the night in the flat where he'd showed her the arrow and the lounge chair stain, before she'd seen his layers, this would've upset her. But considering she was now in a cottage in the middle of Scottish wilderness with her strange old friend, along with a witch and her partner, she was unsure whether there was anything that could surprise her anymore.

"And I suppose your next question is: 'what am I'?" The Doctor asked.

"But you just told me." Then it dawned on her that he had meant her. "What do you mean, 'what am I'? I'm just a regular person."

"Clara Oswald, have you never considered why you found a record shop you'd never heard of in the heart of Shoreditch? Have you never wondered why you've always found things other people had sworn they'd hidden away? You have a gift for finding things that are hidden because you're not the same as everyone else."

Clara shivered. "All right. What am I?"

"Humans, overly simplistic as they are, have historically called you Fae," he said.

"But, why do I look human?" she asked. "Shouldn't I be very tiny and have wings?"

He laughed. "You are quite small."

Clara made a noise of disagreement.

"What humans think of us and how we actually appear are two very different things. Humans don't have the ability to comprehend our true forms. It's why Danny doesn't remember the night of the arrow even though he was there." The Doctor rubbed his side absentmindedly. Clara wondered if the wound still bothered him.

"So you didn't do anything to him?"

The Doctor shook his head slightly. "Didn't have to. And I don't like tampering with the pudding brains. It's not a good power to have over another creature."

"Powers. Could I change? Like you?" She asked, thrilled by the sudden idea of having some sort of magical abilities, as ridiculous as her logical brain warned her that it was.

He considered for a moment. "I don't know much about what you can and can't do. Because you seem to have been raised by humans, you don't have the knowledge you need to be able to utilize your power properly. It's part of why I brought you up here with me. Thought being around others like us could coax some of your abilities out of you."

Something about that admission didn't sit quite right with her. "Are you using me for something, Doctor?"

"Don't be daft," he scoffed. "You wanted to know more. I can never say no to someone who wants to travel beyond the world they know."

She considered his answer for a second. "What were all the faces I saw?" she asked finally. "Do you change your face?"

"Yes. But it's more complicated. Once I've chosen a new face, I can't go back to an old one," he said. "And before you ask-I don't get to choose the exact face. It just...happens."

She gestured towards him. "So how long have you had this face?"

"Not very long, in a relative sense. Time moves very differently for my people."

"So there are others like you?"

He looked away, picking his book from the train up. Then, very quietly: "I'd like to finish up this chapter. See you downstairs for dinner?"

Standing up, she left The Doctor, who had swung his legs onto the bed and leaned back against the wall. She felt a bit guilty for asking him what she now realised were very personal questions. But there was an entire world she was on the cusp of discovering and she had so many more questions now.

From downstairs, Clara heard knocking at the door. A man's voice as the door creaked open.

"Hey there, Red," said the man's voice, distinctly American. "Looking gorgeous as ever."

"So says you. Must be nice to never age," came Donna's voice.

"Nice to see you too. You gonna invite me in or do I have to hit on your husband instead?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on in, then."

Clara, curious, went downstairs to see who this new guest was. The man, dressed in a long military-style overcoat, turned around to face her. He smiled broadly. Clara figured there was something more to him, but it was hard to ignore the charm oozing from him. His Disney prince features definitely added to the appeal.

"Now who is this lovely young woman," he asked.

"Clara," she replied. "Clara Oswald."

"Clara. A pleasure." The man leaned in to give her a kiss on each cheek as a hello, though Clara noted how cold his lips were against her skin. "Captain Jack Harkness."


End file.
